


You Are My Song

by bodtlings



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: High School, M/M, Music, Music AU, pianist jean, pianist marco? ish, this is sappy and gay i love it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-22
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-22 16:12:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6086257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bodtlings/pseuds/bodtlings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A concert, an airhead, and admirable persistence.</p>
<p>In which Marco is enamored with Jean's skill and forces him to teach him how to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are My Song

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Foxberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxberry/gifts).



> thank you so much bel for this commission! it was super fun to write and i hope you enjoy <3
> 
> [tumblr](http://bodtlings.tumblr.com) // [twitter](https://twitter.com/hajimetxt) // [commission info](http://bodtlings.tumblr.com/post/129743842927/hi-everyone-i-come-to-u-in-my-time-of-need-im-a)

“Your finger placement is wrong.”

“Says who?”

“Every practice book in existence. And me.”

“But it’s easier this way.”

“Even if it is, it’s not correct. Follow the books and place your hands on the right keys or no hot chocolate for you.”

Marco groans and sighs and does as he’s told, putting his right thumb on middle C, pointer finger on D, and all his fingers on the corresponding letters after that. He presses down with minimal effort and the piano sings under his fingertips. He will never tire of this call and response.

It’s been twelve years and Marco still hates the proper hand placement. Twelve whole years of sitting in their spotless living room, of whispering quiet hellos upon entry and giving silent thank yous after each lesson and duet song is complete. Twelve years of Jean reprimanding him for disregard of his practice books and twelve years of pondering how he’d become so skilled despite doing things unconventionally. 

If you asked Marco and Jean separately about how their piano Tuesdays started, they would tell you different things.

 

* * *

 

Marco’s story goes a little like this:

Freshman year of high school he watched this child prodigy play a baby grand like he was born for it. There were no ball gowns and no cocktail parties, but sweaty students and exhausted faculty as the stage and music stands were set up for orchestra’s ensemble to perform for the winter concert, as it does every year before Christmas. They collectively practice from the first day of school up until this concert, perfecting their pieces and mastering the art of musical teamwork. It was to this concert that Marco was dragged by his cousin Ymir, who was graduating in spring, and wanted to experience everything before she left. 

“You’ve never been and I missed out on every single one my whole high school career. C’mon, you’re coming with me.”

Marco remembers the dusty red curtains rising and the lights dimming, spotlights resting on the orchestra students as they picked up their bows and instruments. That boy with the dual colored hair came on stage last, bowed as little as he could, and took his seat at the piano. Marco doesn’t remember the speech made by the orchestra teacher; he was too shocked at seeing the quietest kid in the junior class preparing to play for him.

The students played and the students left, but the one boy at the piano remained. The audience began to rise and leave the auditorium, but the boy began to play, and everyone froze. It wasn’t part of the ensemble and it wasn’t planned. He just played, like the keys were magnets and his fingers couldn’t help themselves, drawn to them with an indescribable purpose. 

Everyone sat down again and watched this boy play, despite the program being officially over. Somewhere up top, in the studio that controlled the lighting and sound for the stage, Marco heard scrambling, as a boy with blonde hair and ocean eyes scrambled to turn the spotlight onto the pianist.

There was no grand speech, no interruption. There was no stopping and no leaving, only this boy gracing the auditorium with his song that Marco will later learn was Claude Debussy’s  _ Clair de Lune _ . His fingers were light and caressed the keys as if they were almost too precious to play, and when he was finished, a standing ovation roared and echoed from the cheers of the spectators to the stunned boy who forgot where he was.

Marco went home that night and tried to find his song, but he couldn’t; with no lyrics to type into his Google search bar and no friends in the music department, he was stuck. He frequently caught himself humming its tune from then onwards, hoping his memory served him correct in the notes.

The only solution he could think of was to find that boy that played it and get the name of the song. So he searched. Between class periods, during his lunch hour, even when he asked to use the restroom during class he’d peek around the music department classrooms and see if he could catch him in there. His luck was horrible, and after three weeks of looking, he came up empty.

On the fourth week, he found him in the guidance counselor’s office.

He had black wire glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose as he filled out paperwork with Mr. Smith and looked up when Marco  entered. Marco still laughs to this day because the strongest thing he recalls is his mouth going drier than the desert. 

“It’s you,” he’d said, in obvious astonishment and relief.

Jean had looked up from his papers with a question and a raised eyebrow. “Do I know you?”

“No. No but I just wanted -”

A counselor had appeared from one of the cubicles with papers in her hand, yelling, “Bodt” to the waiting area. Marco, mouth open and unsure of what to do next, simply stared for a second more and dashed into the counselor’s office. He said no goodbye and didn’t finish his sentence; he made a fool of himself.

 

* * *

 

Jean’s story is a little different:

He remembers looking like an idiot and performing his piece at the winter concert without plans and without permission from Mr. Ackerman. He definitely remembers the thundering applause he wasn’t expecting and the stern scolding from his teacher. More than anything, he remembers a boy in the audience, younger than him, by the looks of it, waiting until every single person left the auditorium to clap. (Jean thought he was a dumbass just looking for attention, but Marco swears it was on accident and he was so stunned by his performance he didn’t notice everyone had left already.)

Mr. Ackerman had given him a talking to when the rest of the performers left that night, after they all received flowers from their families and went home. Jean had closed himself off in one of the small piano practice rooms, idly playing with the keys to no particular tune. He played just to play. He didn’t hear Mr. Ackerman coming into the room behind him.

“You play more beautifully than any other student I’ve taught.”

Jean had jumped and banged his hand on the piano ledge, earning him a blossoming purple bruise on the back of his palm a few days later. He remembers being startled, flattered, embarrassed all at once. From then on, Mr. Ackerman had taught him everything he knew and took him under his wing as an unofficial mentee. Jean had polished his skills and as a junior in high school, applied early for scholarships and auditions at universities for music around the country.

That’s what he was filling out when Marco showed up in the guidance counselor’s office that day, looking like a fish in desperate need of water. Looking back on it, Marco’s face had been red and awe-struck, as if he had found diamonds after so long sifting through coal. He never knew what to make of that encounter and never kept it close to his heart as Marco has done all these years later. 

This was Marco’s first encounter with Jean that he held so dear, but not Jean’s.

 

* * *

 

“Finger placement, Marco.”

“Fuck your finger placement.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing, nothing. B-minor here, right?”

“Yep.”

Marco played a D on purpose and earned an agitated pout from Jean, that he kissed away in seconds.

 

* * *

 

“I want you to teach me.”

“Hah?”

Two weeks after the counselor incident, Marco finally found him again, this time back in the auditorium on a whim. It was the last place Marco didn’t check through all the weeks of trying to locate this mystery pianist, and he found him where he first saw him. 

Jean was sitting at the piano on stage, not in concert attire but in skinny jeans, beat up converse and a band tee under blue paid. His glasses were falling, but he didn’t dare stop his hands during a song to push them back up. They would need to be tightened, but when he plays, he forgets everything else. Unless, of course, they fall during his performance, which has happened a few times in the past. 

Marco walked in mid song, once again in awe at Jean’s ability. He watched and waited until Jean’s song came to a close to shout from the back, “I want you to teach me.”

Scared out of his mind, Jean fell backwards off the piano bench and onto the stage with a yelp, landing hard on his back. Marco, already embarrassed, ran over to help him up. Jean was on his feet before Marco reached the stage steps, and he stopped at the edge of the platform.

“Are you okay?”

Jean groaned and rubbed his back, adjusting his glasses with his free hand and sighing. “Yeah, ‘m fine.”

A few awkward moments passed between them as Jean resettled into his seat, picking up fallen papers and the bench that tipped over. Marco wrung his hands nervously and waited for him to be finished. He said, in a lower voice, so as not to startle him again, “I want you to teach me.”

Jean fixed his glasses once more and raised an eyebrow. “Teach you? Teach you what, piano?” Marco only nodded his head. “Have you ever even played before?” Marco said no, and gripped the hem of his shirt.

A sigh, a closing of a book, and an extended hand: that is what Jean offered to Marco, and that is what Marco accepted.

 

* * *

 

“Do you remember the first day you taught me?”

“Yes, you were horrible."

“Hey! I was inexperienced and learning, leave me alone.”

“You were inexperienced and learning and you were adorable.”

“And you were a jackass.”

“You gave me a huge-ass bruise on my back, cut me a break.”

 

* * *

 

“So before you start, you have to look at your sheet music. Do you know how to read music?” Marco shook his head. “Do you know chords, finger placements, the names of the keys?” Marco shook his head again. “Oye vey, we gotta lot of work to do. Sit down and get out some paper or something, I’ll teach you. I have free time, so I don’t mind.”

“Okay. Jean?"

“Hm?”

“Thanks for teaching me.”

 

* * *

 

That was Jean’s defining moment. That was the day he not only became aware of Marco’s existence, but that was also the day he made a friend.

The music department wasn’t Jean’s friend; they were envious of his skill, of his ability to pick up pieces as easily as getting them nearly perfect the first time he played them. They hated Mr. Ackerman’s attachment - not favoritism, but a poorly-hidden fondness - to Jean in that, whenever class was over, they would go to the practice rooms and he would teach him privately. They were jealous of Jean and no one thought to be friends with him. He was competition, and competition was synonymous with enemy.

Marco was new. Marco was naive and younger than him and entirely open in his emotions. He’d make his own staff paper and write down notes, their names, their positions on the staff, whatever advice Jean had to give him. His tongue would poke out as he wrote with a fervor Jean had forgotten existed.    


His passion remained from childhood to high school, but Jean forgot how to play with love until Marco became his friend.

After that first day, Jean played with renewed vigor and remembered what it was like to fall in love with something again.

 

* * *

 

They picked up a routine.

Marco was a freshman and Jean was a junior, so their lunch periods didn’t match up, and they didn’t have any classes together. Time wasn’t a friend and the clock became a nuisance as it mocked them with each passing of the red second hand. Another second away from him. 

Time found them in the auditorium, when the practice rooms were locked and music classrooms were closed. Club activities went on after school hours, and it was a blessing. The promise of a lesson for Marco and Jean in the place they met was all they needed. It was what they looked forward to at the end of every school day, and they were never disappointed. Often, it was Jean waiting against the metal doors to the assembly hall and Marco running down the halls, out of breath and full of anticipation.

“I’m here, I’m here!” he’d say, with a grin on his face, brighter than all the spotlights in the room.

“I can see that. Come on, we’re talking about the bass clef today.”

“ _ Yesssssss _ .”

 

* * *

 

Marco became a sophomore and Jean became a senior.

Their schedules changed, but they still made time after school to practice. Marco practiced every chance he could, and by the start of the new school year, could play the songs he initially had struggles playing with no problem at all. Jean was impressed; he didn’t think Marco was serious about learning, but his diligence was admirable and the results of it were fascinating. It made Jean proud in some way, and pushed him to work just as hard.

 

* * *

 

Eventually, they became close enough for Jean to invite him to his house. Or so Jean says -- it was more out of fear of leaving than of invading his space.

After their second year as friends, Jean would be off to college on an accepted pianist scholarship, thankfully in their town, and Marco would be left behind to finish out the remainder of his two years. Jean didn’t want to graduate and have their friendship fall apart, so he thought letting Marco in would help solidify things.

They did. Instead of practicing after school, they ventured to Jean’s house every Tuesday to play on the polished black baby grand sitting proud and strong in Jean’s living room.

“My parents are rarely ever home, so I don’t have to worry about playing and being too loud. Go on, you can sit. Her name’s Charlotte.” Jean sat on the couch adjacent to the piano, a dark charcoal that had cushions you could sink into. 

Marco hummed, gliding his fingers with a ghost’s touch over the glossy keyboard cover. He lifted it with careful fingers and was shocked to see the piano keys were not the ivory or white plastic he was expecting. The keys themselves were spruce wood, but the covers were pearl. They were so beautiful, like someone had blown smoke and condensed it to make the key covers. Against the black gloss of the piano, the keys stood prominent and shining, and Marco had laughed. Typical of Jean to be so unique right down to his own personal keyboard design.

Like he does every time before he sits on the bench, Marco whispered hello. It’s respectful, he thinks, and he felt it was only appropriate. Jean chuckled next to him. “Stop talking to inanimate objects, people will think you’re crazy.”

“Oh hush you.” Marco waved his hand at Jean, took out his music folder, and settled his sheet music on the piano’s page holder.

“Go to exercise seven in the practice book, we’re gonna start with that today. Use the finger placements.”

“Always with the fingers,” Marco muttered, and did as he was told.

 

* * *

 

“You are still so incredibly stubborn. Why is that?”

“Jean, has anyone ever told you to do something you didn’t want to do?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And does that make you want to do it more?”

“No…”

“Exactly.”

“Okay but still. You wanted to learn  _ so _ bad and yet you  _ never _ followed the finger placements. You still don’t.”

“Because it’s easier my own way. I think it adds to my style, don’t you think?”

 

* * *

 

They fell in love over piano keys.

People always write about grand romantic gestures and specific moments they fall in love, but this story of Marco and Jean isn’t like that. It’s not quick and precise. It’s immeasurable. There are no defining moments like the sure one of their meeting, or the set time they’d gather in front of the auditorium doors to play. You can’t pinpoint love. It just happened.

Marco could watch Jean play for hours. From the concentrated crease in his brow to the deft and fluid movements of his long fingers over each memorized key, to the steady tap of his foot to the beat and the very, very slight smile he unknowingly wears as soon as the notes sing. It’s captivating. Entrancing. Absolutely hypnotic.

Two weeks before Jean was set to walk at graduation and they were back in the auditorium.

“You’re really going, huh?”

“That’s what happens when you graduate, Marco, yeah.”

They were quiet for a while, Jean pressing random keys with light fingers and no purpose other than because he could.

He smiled then, a full grin from ear to ear and a look that told of an idea. He set his back straight, cracked his knuckles, and began a song. As soon as the first chords echoed throughout the room, tears welled up in Marco’s eyes. They rolled down his cheeks and splashed on the backs of his hands, which had balled the fabric of his pants into fists. He cried while Jean played  _ Clair de Lune _ , careful to commit to memory the way Jean glided over the keyboard.

It wasn’t until after he was finished that Jean noticed him crying and that Marco openly sobbed.

Unaccustomed to people crying, Jean held out his hands, unsure of where to put them. He settled with gently putting his hands on Marco’s face, running his thumb across his cheeks to wipe away the tears. “Your crying face is ugly.”

“Shut up.”

They were quiet again, and Marco opened his eyes, not noticing they had closed. Jean stopped his movements then and leaned in to kiss him.

Jean’s lips were soft, so much softer than how Marco thought they’d be. They lingered together, fresh tears sliding along Marco’s face. When Jean pulled away, he wiped those, too, and bumped his forehead against Marco’s. 

“Just because I’m graduating doesn’t mean I’m leaving you.”

“It feels like it.”

“Idiot.” He pulled away to kiss his forehead. “You can come over every Tuesday. I’ll still teach you, my little prodige.” 

Marco let out a crackled laugh and sighed. “I know. It just won’t be the same.”

“I know.”

They stayed there until the school closed for the night, holding hands as they walked out of the building with heavy hearts but hopeful minds.

 

* * *

 

Graduation came and went, and Marco spent nearly every day with Jean over the summer. Jean bought Marco an electric keyboard for his birthday so he could practice at home, and Marco showered him in kisses for it.

They had sleepovers, sunny days in their backyards, and exercise books to be completed. They spent as much time together as they could before Jean’s college started up. 

Before it was time to return back to school, Jean had called Marco for a last sleepover, seeing as his parents were working overnights and he didn’t want to spend it alone. Marco was at his door in less than fifteen minutes with a bag of clothes, horrible movies, and an exercise book just in case.

 

* * *

 

School got harder and time reared its ugly head to laugh at them once more. Piano Tuesdays were their only solace as responsibilities grew and their work became harder. But it lasted, as they had said it would.

 

* * *

 

“You were such a cry baby.”

“ _ Jean! _ I was not!”

“Yes you were. You cried because I was graduating, you cried the first day of junior year. You cried all the time.”

“That is a valid reason to cry. That was my first year of school without you, and you left me.”

“No I didn’t, and I haven’t all this time, have I?”

“Not at all.”

 

* * *

 

Twelve years has seen many things: their graduations from high school and from college, new faces, new places. Twelve years has seen everything.

Jean graduated with his Bachelor of Music degree and went on to become a concert pianist for the New York Philharmonic. His audition went beautifully and he received a call of acceptance only a few short days later.

Marco went to college and graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in Music Teacher Education. He starts teaching concert choir and music at a high school a mile down the road in two weeks when the fall semester begins.

 

* * *

 

They had a very small wedding. Jean and Marco’s immediate family were the only ones to attend the reception in Jean’s spacious backyard. Nothing big and fancy; it was small and intimate, like how they wanted it. Inside both of their wedding bands  _ You are my song _ is engraved.

After the ceremony, lanterns were strung in the branches of the trees and lit, accenting the candles on the tables in the yard and adding a glow to the gathering of people. Jean’s mother hired a few people from his graduating orchestra class to play at the reception, and as the sun set, they set up their instruments and played.

Their first dance was to  _ Clair de Lune,  _ and Marco cried into Jean’s shoulder, soaking his suit with tears. Good tears though, because this time, Marco knew Jean wasn’t leaving.

He didn’t, he wasn’t, and he won’t.

 

* * *

 

“Why must you always hog the remote, Jean.”

“Excuse you, Criminal Minds is on.”

“I was ready to argue with you but I will never argue with Criminal Minds, move over.”

Now thirteen years, an apartment, a wedding, and a cat named Chico later, they teach and play and instruct and learn. All of Marco’s students adore and love him and his classes; they fight to get in them. He stays after school sometimes and plays the piano in the auditorium for the students who want to listen, or learn a few extra things. Jean has been playing for the New York Philharmonic for a little over a year, and for every concert, a Marco can be spotted in the front row in the seat closest to the piano where his husband sits. Jean plays with all the love in his heart, but makes sure to leave some for Marco, who gives him flowers after each performance. With every piece his keys play, Jean remembers that day in high school when Marco taught him how to love his craft again, how to breathe the music that’s given him life, and pours that love right back out through his fingertips. 

They have found routine again. Marco still has the keyboard Jean bought him for his birthday that one summer. On nights when Marco has no quizzes to grade, Jean sits at his piano and plays. Sometimes, Marco drags out that keyboard from the closet and plays a duet with him, which always ends in howling laughter because the old electric keyboard can’t ever compare to the baby grand with the pearl keys. 

Jean doesn’t play when it rains; the humidity messes with the strings of the piano and they sound wrong. He takes this opportunity to rest from practice to watch TV or help Marco with his students. Occasionally, he makes trips to the high school to play and help some of the kids who think about going to college for music. 

Other times when it rains, Jean will stay at home and rifle through his things, always restless, always itching for his hands to do something. He finds their high school yearbooks in boxes under the bed, Marco’s first piano exercise book he used with Jean, the first picture they took together after Jean’s last high school orchestra concert. When Marco comes back home from work, Jean hugs him tightly and cries into his shoulder, grateful for Marco’s airheaded persistence and determination all those years ago.

For nostalgia’s sake, Marco takes their first practice book and goes downstairs to the piano, despite the humidity, and puts it on the music stand.

“Your finger placement is still wrong.”

“Says who?”

“Every practice book in existence. And me.”

“But it’s easier this way.”

Marco’s replies are always the same, and Jean huffs a laugh, because they will probably always  _ be _ the same. That’s how Marco is: unconventional, unique. Sure. 

He smiles and moves Marco’s hands to the right placements and begins playing  _ Clair de Lune _ with his fingers on top of Marco’s.


End file.
